


Hierarchy of Needs

by tinzelda



Series: Hierarchy of Needs Series [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A million thanks to Pharis, trusty beta extraordinaire.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Hierarchy of Needs

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to Pharis, trusty beta extraordinaire.

“Caucasian female, approximately twelve years old. A neighbor used a spare key when she heard the cat wanting to be let in, found the girl in the front room. She said the name is Mardling. The parents are nowhere to be found.”

As the words sounded in his ear, tinny over the bad connection, Robbie was careful to keep his expression neutral. Hathaway was watching him, his head at an inquiring tilt. He tipped back his head and drained the last bit of coffee from his cup, then turned away to throw it in the bin on the corner.

“We’ll be right there,” Robbie said into his phone. Once he’d hung up, he found himself without words. He couldn’t push the Zalinski trial out of his mind—Hathaway’s gnawed fingernails.

Robbie followed Hathaway to the car and waited until they were belted in to relate the details. Hathaway went very still as he listened.

It was easy to find the scene: flashing lights and vehicles parked every which way. Robbie followed Hathaway up the walk to a modest house at one end of a modern terrace. When they reached the front door, Hathaway stopped so suddenly that Robbie almost ran smack into his back.

“Hathaway?”

Robbie put out a hand to touch Hathaway’s shoulder, but before it made contact, Hathaway turned and shoved past. Robbie watched him dash away down the path, then turned to find Laura looking at him from inside the house. She was frowning. “Robbie?”

Robbie held up his finger. “Be right back.”

He found Hathaway leaning against a brick wall across the street. A cigarette hung from his fingers, but he hadn’t lit it.

“I can’t,” Hathaway said. He looked ill. “I can’t, sir. I’m sorry.”

“All right,” Robbie said. “It’s all right. I’ll go in. You talk to the neighbor.”

“No, I’m sorry, sir. Dr. Hobson turned, and I saw the girl’s hand—” He broke off and bowed his head. “I simply can’t.”

*****

Robbie took longer than he should at the scene, what with Laura casting mother hen looks in his direction and half his mind leaning against that brick wall with Hathaway. So Robbie decided to send him home, though he didn’t like to think of the lad going off on his own. Not in the state he was in.

Innocent didn’t much like it either. Robbie didn’t want to tell her about Hathaway—didn’t want to do anything that couldn’t be undone. But she pressed him. When she heard that Hathaway had gone home, she let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Tomorrow then,” she said. “I want to speak to him first thing.”

Robbie escaped as soon as he could. He drove like a madman, imagining Hathaway, shell-shocked and exhausted. But when Hathaway answered the door, he was calm. Not a manufactured sort of composure either—he was genuinely unruffled. He fetched a couple of beers, and their knees bumped when he collapsed onto the sofa next to Robbie.

Robbie waited for him to say something. And waited. He’d finished half his beer before Hathaway finally spoke.

“You know I’ve thought of leaving before.”

Again, Robbie waited.

“It used to be when I thought of leaving, it made me just as miserable as the thought of continuing. But lately . . . To be free of it all . . . to even imagine that as possible . . .”

Robbie couldn’t argue with that, not without being cruel. How could he in good conscience try to convince the man to spend his days looking at broken bodies? But—selfishly, he knew—he wanted to leave just the tiniest bit of room for Hathaway to change his mind.

“Sleep on it, at least, eh? Just come in tomorrow. I won’t press you.”

Hathaway nodded. After a pause he said, “It won’t make any difference.”

“Come on, man. There are times in life when a little optimism is called for.”

Hathaway didn’t look at him. The silence continued for so long, Robbie began to think that was truly all Hathaway had to say on the subject.

“I am sorry, sir. I meant to stay until you were ready to go as well, but I—”

“No, no,” Robbie sighed. “You can’t do it for me.”

“I’m sorry, Robbie.”

Robbie’s heart fell into his stomach.

*****

“I know that it must be a dilemma for you,” Innocent said, with more gentleness than was her habit. “Wanting to stay with Inspector Lewis when we all know you’re more than ready for promotion, but—”

“I’m afraid you’ve missed the point entirely.”

Robbie cringed. Here was fresh evidence that Hathaway must be serious about leaving. He was sarcastic in that quiet way he had, and of course he could be blunt. But never quite like this, in a way that Innocent couldn’t ignore.

“I’m absolutely certain I wouldn’t even attempt to continue without Inspector Lewis,” Hathaway explained. “Promotion doesn’t enter into the discussion.”

Innocent was surprised into silence. Was it Hathaway’s rudeness that shocked her? Or his seeming lack of ambition? Robbie tore his eyes away from her long enough to peek at Hathaway. He was serious and calm, not trying to provoke her. He was simply explaining the facts.

Hathaway rose from his chair. “May I go?”

Innocent nodded. Once Hathaway left the room, she glared at Robbie. “Talk to him.”

“Ma’am.”

Robbie dashed back to the office. Hathaway had already put on his overcoat. He looked around his desk, but he didn’t pick anything up. Was he waiting until he made a final decision before packing up? Or was there nothing here that he thought was worth holding onto?

“Listen,” Robbie said.

Hathaway looked at him. Expectant but patient. Robbie couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Sir—”

“Maybe a holiday?” Robbie said half-heartedly.

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

After a nod from Robbie, Hathaway strode out of the office without another word.

*****

Robbie’s phone rang at half nine. When he saw that it was Hathaway, he almost didn’t answer, but he couldn’t do that to the lad.

“I’ve booked my flights,” Hathaway’s voice said. “I’ll be gone for a week.”

That was a pleasant surprise. Robbie had fully expected Hathaway to be calling to give his final word on the subject.

“Where will you go?”

“Russia.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“St. Petersburg. I’ve been reading the Russians. I thought I’d see the Hermitage.”

“It’s January, man. You’ll freeze!”

“Perhaps the cold will clear my head.”

“Take care of yourself,” Robbie said after a pause.

“I will, sir.”

*****

Robbie was checking his e-mail when Innocent came into his office. It wasn’t that he was expecting Hathaway to send him a message. Did they even have internet cafés in St. Petersburg?

Her voice was crisp and falsely cheerful. “You’re in court this afternoon?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She hovered between the door and the desk. Robbie knew there was another reason she’d come to speak with him. Some childish part of him refused to give in and ask what it was. He waited, pasting on his best innocent expression.

“I know nothing’s been decided—” she began.

“No, it hasn’t.”

Innocent frowned at Robbie’s insistent tone. “But it’s never too soon to start looking at your options.”

“Options?” Was she ready to put him out to pasture again now that she thought James had flown the coop?

“I thought you and Sergeant Clarke might—”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

She stopped midsentence and lowered her chin to look at him from under lowered brows. “I don’t mean to say—”

“If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’ll wait until Sergeant Hathaway’s made up his mind. It’s only a few days till he’s back.”

She nodded and left the room without any further discussion. Robbie would almost rather she’d put her foot down—her sudden kindness made him feel like there was a reason for her to feel sorry for him, and he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

The idea of breaking in a new bagman—it was impossible to consider. He’d rather retire. But what would he tell Lyn? Without the job, there’d be no reason for Robbie not to move up near her and the baby. Little Alec was an angel, but weekend visits were enough. He didn’t have to live down the street to be a good grandpa, did he?

_Maybe while Hathaway’s on holiday I should drive up and see them?_ Robbie dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred to him. He wasn’t fit company for anyone just now.

*****

“James!”

“Sir.”

“I thought it sounded like your knock, but then I thought—come in, come in. Don’t stand on ceremony with me.” Robbie knew he was rambling. “You weren’t due back for two days yet.”

Hathaway gave him a tight smile, and the joy Robbie felt at seeing him melted away.

“I never left, sir,” he said as he came into the flat. “I went to the airport, but I didn’t even get out of the cab.”

For almost a week, Hathaway had been right here in Oxford, without so much as a peep out of him. Robbie went to the couch, and Hathaway sat beside him.

“I asked the driver to take me to St. Gerard’s, and I spoke to Joanne Pinnock. Do you remember her?”

“Of course.” Robbie had thought he’d steeled himself for this moment, so it was surprising how cross he sounded. He cleared his throat before he spoke again. “How is she?”

Hathaway looked at him for a moment, his head at a tilt. “As well as can be expected . . . She was very kind. She was always kind to me.”

Robbie already knew. From the minute Hathaway had given him that pinched, miserable smile, it’d been clear he hadn’t come to deliver good news. But Robbie was determined not to spoil things for him. “Held that fellowship open for you all this time, has she?”

Hathaway didn’t answer.

“Out with it.”

“There’s another fellowship. The man they originally gave it to dropped out at the last minute, and they’re desperate to fill the spot quickly.”

“Well, I guess it’s meant to be then, eh?”

Hathaway didn’t answer. He slumped down on the sofa, his chin dropping to his chest, and as he did so his shoulder pressed against Robbie’s.

The silence became unbearable.

“Will you come in tomorrow? To tell Innocent?” A moment’s hesitation was all the clue Robbie needed. “You’ve already spoken to her.”

Hathaway nodded.

Robbie allowed himself one sigh, and James looked at him in concern.

“I think I need a drink for this.” Robbie went to the kitchen, found the whiskey bottle behind the cheese grater, and dusted it off. He grabbed two glasses and plunked it all down on the table in front of Hathaway. James took his glass but eyed it warily.

“It’s not the best you’ll ever have, but it’s not the worst either,” Robbie said.

James smiled at him—a real smile this time—and downed the drink in one gulp. Robbie took a small sip, then set the glass on the table. He saw now that it wasn’t going to help. And too much to drink might make him forget himself, say something to make James feel more guilty than he already did. “We could keep up with the squash, sir.”

“No need for that,” Robbie answered. He looked up, expecting to see relief on Hathaway’s face. Instead, James was frowning. “Well, if you want—”

“I do,” Hathaway said, cutting Robbie off. “I thought we could meet before work. I’ll be working on my own so much. It would get me up and out early, so I’m not tempted to sleep in.”

“You? You don’t have a lazy bone in your body.”

“I might surprise you.” Hathaway looked at Robbie with a lift of eyebrows that Robbie couldn’t interpret. “This morning I was in bed until well past eleven o’clock.”

It was difficult for Robbie to imagine Hathaway as an unemployed layabout, lounging in his bed until almost afternoon—the man was always busy, always doing more than was expected. But if Hathaway was willing to meet up, Robbie could certainly use the exercise. “How about Mondays and Thursdays?”

*****

Robbie couldn’t seem to stop staring at Hathaway’s neck. It started because when they’d sat down with their glasses, Robbie couldn’t quite meet his eyes, so he’d fixed his gaze slightly lower. Then he noticed how strange James’s neck looked—he was wearing a faded T-shirt under a worn corduroy jacket, and without a tie and collar his neck looked too long. Somehow vulnerable.

It was seeing James like this that was the problem: “socially,” you might say. They’d kept up with their squash games, but Robbie didn’t spend much time looking at Hathaway then, not while they played, and it was easy to pretend that nothing had changed, that they would clean themselves up, put on their suits, and go to work. Real work.

Hathaway’s fellowship? He was enjoying it. That was all too bloody obvious. Robbie had wondered if maybe Hathaway would get bored, sitting in libraries and bent over countless dusty books, but it had been two months now, and it seemed there was no chance of that.

Yesterday morning when they finished their game, Hathaway had asked Robbie to meet him after work today for a pint, and he’d thought it was a grand idea. But now they were here, and Robbie found he really didn’t know what to say. He felt like James wouldn’t want him to talk about the job. He didn’t particularly want to talk about it either, but lately it seemed like the job was all Robbie had.

“I have some news,” Hathaway said, breaking into Robbie’s thoughts.

For the first time, Robbie looked at him, really looked at him. He seemed relaxed. He was leaning back in his chair in a comfortable-looking slouch, and from time to time his head nodded slightly in time with the music playing from behind the bar.

“I’ve bought a house.”

“A house.”

“Yeah.”

“To live in.”

“Yes, to live in.” James squinted at Robbie. “What else? I’m going to renovate it. It’s been vacant for almost six years, except when there were squatters in, so it’s in terrible shape.”

He said it as if the insanity of buying an abandoned, ramshackle property were something to be proud of. But Robbie was being awful—James bringing him happy news, and him sitting there like it didn’t matter to him, barely speaking.

“Where is this house?” The idea rattled into Robbie’s brain that James would leave Oxford, but he carried on in spite of it. “In St. Petersburg?”

The remark earned Robbie a small grin in response.

“In Cowley. Well, almost in Cowley. It’s a rather dodgy neighborhood, actually.”

So Robbie asked about every last detail, and James answered every question with an almost giddy satisfaction that Robbie had never seen in him. Oak floors, French doors into the garden at the back. Crown molding and huge windows in the front room.

Hathaway stuck out his hand when they stood up. Robbie reached out and shook it reflexively. But he didn’t like the feel of it—like they were saying goodbye forever.

“Come by the house sometime,” Hathaway said as he pulled on his overcoat.

It was the kind of invitation meant sincerely and usually promptly forgotten. But Robbie didn’t forget. He held out as long as he could. It was almost a week before he found himself driving away from the station car park toward Cowley.

When he turned into Hathaway’s street, Robbie slowed down. He couldn’t remember the number, but it didn’t matter—before he’d gone two blocks he saw Hathaway perched on the steps of a narrow house. Its white-painted bricks were peeling and chipped, but the windows were sparkling clean.

There was a dark-haired man standing there that Robbie didn’t recognize. He was talking to Hathaway, who was listening and nodding as he took a long drag on his cigarette. He grinned as he exhaled, looking more his age than Robbie had ever seen him.

Hathaway’s smile was one Robbie was certain he hadn’t seen until they’d known each other a year, at least. What was the man saying to him to make him smile like that? And who was the fellow? He was leaning over James in a way that reminded Robbie of nothing more than the way blokes loomed over pretty girls in a pub: partly protective, partly aggressive. But maybe Robbie had the wrong end of the stick—he might be an old school chum, or a cousin. When he stopped to think about it, Robbie really didn’t know Hathaway all that well at all. Knew nothing about his family or who his friends were.

Robbie was tempted to drive on by. Interrupting their conversation would be nothing but awkward for all parties. But at that moment, Hathaway glanced up and caught sight of Robbie’s car. At first his gaze slid away without recognition, but then his head snapped back. His eyes locked on Robbie’s and opened wider.

_Too late to run away now_ , Robbie thought. He found, as he watched Hathaway unfold himself and trot over to the car, that he didn’t want to run away anymore. Robbie put down the window.

“Hi,” Hathaway said as he leaned down to peer into the car. He was slightly breathless, though he couldn’t have been winded from that short jog. “There’s usually parking just past the corner there.” He stood up, so that Robbie could only see a section of his torso. “They’re redoing a whole terrace there, but by this time of day all the workmen and lorries have gone.”

The street in the next block was littered with bits of gravel and construction scraps, but empty of cars as predicted. As Robbie walked back to Hathaway’s house, he noticed that there were several other buildings being renovated. _Gentrification. Isn’t that what they call it? he thought. Maybe the lad wasn’t mad after all, buying such a house._

Hathaway was still outside when Robbie arrived. “This is my neighbor, Paul Reeves.”

Robbie nodded and reached out for a handshake.

“Paul is a lecturer at Wolsey College, in history.”

Robbie would have guessed that, if Hathaway hadn’t said. He was the very picture of the up-and-coming Oxford academic: graying hair in spite of his youth, boxy-framed glasses that Robbie supposed were in style, and slightly rumpled but expensive clothing, complete with patches on the elbows of his jacket.

“Ah, the great Inspector Lewis,” Paul said. His voice was very posh. “The way James speaks of you I’m surprised at the absence of deerstalker and meerschaum.”

_Lofty toff_ , Robbie thought. He looked at Hathaway’s face. His expression, or rather the complete lack of expression that he conjured up when he was trying not to smirk, told Robbie that their opinions agreed, but clearly Hathaway liked the man. And he had to admit that this Paul probably made a better fit for Hathaway as a friend than Robbie himself. Cultured, educated. Young.

“You’ve come to see James’s progress, have you?”

“Yeah,” Robbie answered. “How much for the grand tour?”

“For you—” Hathaway began, but Paul began speaking at the same moment: “I’ll let you get to it then.” Then to Hathaway, he said, “I’ll e-mail you.”

In silence, they watched Paul until he turned the corner. Robbie wondered what Hathaway’d been about to say when Paul interrupted him.

“I didn’t mean to chase your friend away,” Robbie said, though in truth he was relieved the man had gone.

“Paul just came by to loan me this.” He lifted up a thick paperback book: a do-it-yourself guide to electrical repair. “I’ve got a couple of problem outlets.”

Hathaway turned and led Robbie up into the stairs and into the front room. It was a shambles. There were holes in the plaster of both walls and ceiling, and vandals had been at the place with spray paint. In one corner the floorboards were scorched black.

“Was there a fire?”

“I think it must have been the squatters, trying to keep warm.”

“Sanding isn’t going to take that out.”

“No,” Hathaway said. The idea didn’t seem to worry him. “I imagine strategic rug placement will be the way to go.”

Upstairs things were in slightly better condition. There was a small landing with three doors. The walls at least were sound, and in one of the bedrooms Robbie could see that James had started cleaning the floor in earnest. The floor in the second bedroom was already clean, and there was a mattress lying there surrounded by boxes of books.

“Like camping out,” Robbie said.

“I’ve never been.”

“What, never?”

James shook his head. “My father always said he worked too hard to keep a roof over my head for me to sleep outdoors.”

Robbie looked carefully, but he didn’t see even a trace of bitterness in James’s face or his words.

Hathaway reached through the third doorway and snapped on the light. “I replaced the toilet. It was too disgusting for words.”

Robbie leaned in to see. The floor tiles were smudged and cracked, and the wallpaper was shedding in uneven strips. The white and shining toilet only served to make the rest of the room look even worse by comparison.

“But I’m trying to save the bathtub,” Hathaway continued.

Robbie could see why—it was an old claw-footed monster of a thing. “They don’t make them like that any more, do they? And you must need a big tub, tall as you are."

James’s cheeks flushed at the remark. Robbie couldn’t see where he’d said anything inappropriate, but James’s embarrassment made him feel as though he had.

After an awkward pause, James mumbled, “It’ll take some doing to get it clean.”

Robbie stepped closer and saw the stains inside of it. It was impossible to tell where the mildew stopped and the rust stains began. “Crikey. How on earth will you get that out?”

“The wonders of modern chemistry,” James said. The toe of his trainer nudged at a huge jug of cleanser on the floor by the tub.

Robbie’s eye followed the rickety plumbing leading up to the showerhead. “You haven’t been showering here?”

Hathaway made a face. “God, no, I’ve been going to the gym.”

“You could come to mine. Gym’s probably closed by the time you finish up most nights.”

Hathaway looked surprised, which made Robbie wonder if he’d said something else embarrassing. He took a big backward step back onto the landing.

“Thanks,” Hathaway said after a pause. “Thank you, sir. But I couldn’t impose.”

“It’s nothing. You still have the key?”

“Yeah.” Hathaway patted his pocket as if he were carrying Robbie’s key at that very moment. He shook his head and said, “Yes, well, I know where it is. All right, if you’re sure.”

Robbie wondered why James didn’t just go round the corner to Paul’s house if they had gotten to be such pals. But it was none of his business. He decided to change the subject. “I could help with those outlets if you like.”

*****

“Perfect timing, sir,” Hathaway said when he answered Robbie’s knock.

“Yeah?”

Robbie followed Hathaway up the wooden stairs and stopped next to him on the tiny landing, looking in one of the three doorways. On the far wall of the room were three blocks of color, each about three feet square: a leafy green, a muted blue, and a surprising earthy orange, almost the color of terra cotta flowerpots.

“What do you think?”

“What do I think?”

“Yeah, which would you choose?”

“I’m no decorator,” Robbie protested. But James just leaned against the door jamb, patient. “Bedroom or spare room?”

“Bedroom.”

“The green is nice.”

“At first I thought the green, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to forget the name.”

“The name?”

“On the card from the store. That particular shade of green is called ‘Summer Frolic.’” He managed to say it without even a hint of a smile.

Robbie raised his eyebrows. “Do a lot of frolicking, do you?”

James stared at the color samples. “You don’t like the orange-y one?”

“A bit much, maybe?” Robbie considered. “You’ll never get tired of blue, will you?”

“Blue it is then.”

*****

It was a rainy Tuesday morning, and Robbie didn’t feel much motivation to get himself out of his warm bed. He wondered if Hathaway was stealing some extra sleep as well. The idea of his dutiful sergeant—former sergeant—having a lie-in was still an odd thought. Maybe they should meet at the gym more often. The prospect of a squash game usually got Robbie up and out the door without any stalling.

It was late by the time Robbie got to his desk. There was a message on his office voicemail. “It’s me,” Hathaway’s voice said. Robbie couldn’t help but think Hathaway was humoring him with the invitations and phone calls. If there was nothing left of what they were together, what was the point of it all? Such a breezy tone, and not a “sir” to be heard. He was like a different person. “Come for dinner and I’ll show you what I’ve done with the house. Wednesday? Call me.”

When he greeted Robbie at the door on Wednesday night, he looked different too. He’d let his hair grow longer, and it had gone all unruly on top of his head. But it was more than that. His whole posture seemed different. He still slouched, but less like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

He led Robbie upstairs. It was obvious he was excited to show off his work, but equally obvious that he was trying to hide his enthusiasm. Robbie glanced into the bathroom—the walls still had their peeling wallpaper, but the floor was no longer grimy and a new shower curtain showed that James had managed to get the tub ready to use. Cleaning it must not have been as bad as expected, because James had never taken Robbie up on his offer to come to his flat to clean up. Did he ever take the time for a bath? Robbie guessed he was too busy, what with the research assistantship and all the work he’d been doing on the house.

“I wanted one room in the house that wasn’t a work in progress,” James said as he opened the bedroom door.

The shade of blue he had chosen was mellow enough to be soothing and bright enough to be cheerful. One wall was lined with bookshelves.

“I’ll move these downstairs later,” James said. “But for now the books won’t be covered in dust.”

Between the windows there was an armchair with James’s guitar on a stand next to it on one side and a floor lamp on the other. A huge wardrobe stood in one corner. He’d hung crisp white curtains at the windows and framed photographs on the wall—mostly trees and the like. It was all very tidy and snug.

Robbie didn’t mean to pry, but it was reflex for him. He wasn’t used to looking into the bedrooms of people who were still alive to object to his snooping. He couldn’t help but note that while one of the bedside tables was cluttered with James’s things: a laptop, a pair of glasses, and a paperback book, the table on the other side of the bed was empty but for a small reading lamp. Perhaps he was still celibate then? The title of his novel seemed to confirm it: _One Hundred Years of Solitude_.

“Finished with the Russians then?”

“Just thought I’d take a break in this cold weather for something more tropical. . . . Or equatorial, I suppose.”

Robbie rolled his eyes.

“I was never a fan of magical realism,” James said. His tone was conversational, as if this were a normal thing to chat about. Perhaps it was—Robbie could imagine a bloke like Paul, elbow patches and all, rambling on about magical realism for hours.

“And one is meant to become more skeptical as one gets older, but instead I find myself lately rather liking the idea that extraordinary things can happen when you least expect them.”

James was staring at him in the oddest way, and there was something that Robbie was supposed to _understand_. He knew there was, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. It made him flustered, and he groped around his rattled brain for any kind of response.

“I don’t know about extraordinary,” he finally said. “But how do you like the idea of something like a curry happening? I’m starved.”

“There’s a place two blocks over that delivers,” James said, turning away. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. After he’d called for their meal, he led Robbie downstairs.

James had moved most of the things from the kitchen into the front room, setting up a makeshift cooking area: microwave, kettle, even the refrigerator had been pushed in. The holes in the plaster had been patched, and James must have painted a coat or two of primer over the graffiti, because only hints of the colors showed through.

There was a large desk in the corner piled with papers and huge daunting books: James’s work for St. Gerard’s, no doubt. There wasn’t much space left for the furniture that properly belonged in the room, which was all pushed together under the front windows.

“How’s the work going?” Robbie asked as they passed the desk.

“Fine,” James answered. “I don’t think I’ve told you—I’ve taken on some freelance work.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You remember Paul? He’s written a book, and he’s hired me to edit it for him.”

“That’s right up your alley—getting those apostrophes in their right places.”

“It started out as just that—checking for careless errors, but once I started making more substantive suggestions, he realized I might be of some real help.”

“That’s marvelous.”

The lino crackled under Robbie’s feet when he followed James into the kitchen. When he looked down he saw that it was split and peeling.

“The pipes leaked,” James explained. “The floor was already bad, but then the water soaked in and warped everything—the flooring, the cupboards. There’s no saving anything.”

“Look who’s an expert.”

“Hardly. I had the plumber in to fix the problem, and I talked to Paul. He went through the same thing with his house, but it’s beautiful now. I’m trying to feel inspired rather than envious.”

_Paul again_ , Robbie thought, but he didn’t say anything. It would be good for Hathaway to find someone, Robbie reminded himself. He might not call Robbie quite as often for dinner or a pint if he got seriously involved, but they’d likely still have their squash games.

“I wasn’t sure what I’d do next after the bedroom, but it seems the decision has been made for me. I’m going to start tearing it all out Saturday morning,” James said. His tone changed to something that was almost gleeful. “I’ve bought a sledgehammer.”

“I never figured you as the DIY type.”

James shrugged. “I like making things as I want them.”

“Would you like an assistant? It’s been a while since I had a house to take care of, but I can hardly make a mistake with demolition.”

James smiled then—a radiant grin, different to anything Robbie had ever seen on his face before. It made Robbie feel off balance. James’s happiness and gratitude only reinforced what Robbie had already been thinking. The lad was too used to being alone, too surprised by small gestures of friendship. He needed a partner.

*****

Saturday morning was sunny and breezy. Winter lingered in the cold air, but the bright sunshine gave a hint of spring, making it all the easier to be up and out of the house early on a day off.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Sir? I thought we’d got past that.”

“Old habits.”

James held the door open, and Robbie brushed past him. He took off his coat and hung it on the empty hook next to James’s.

“Coffee first?” James asked.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

James poured, and they stood together in the kitchen with their mugs.

“Don’t we need to do something with the plumbing? Before we start ripping things out?” Robbie asked.

“Paul helped me with that last night.”

Robbie didn’t say anything—just picked up the sledgehammer and handed it to James, who hefted it over one shoulder. There was surprising strength in his gangly body—swinging the hammer as if it weighed nothing. The splintering crash of the first seemed to satisfy him, but after the second and the third, he was frowning at the wall. Each time one of the cupboards fell, it pulled out big chunks of plaster. He stopped, propped the hammer’s handle against the wall, and got up to kneel on the cracked, stained worktop and peer into the remaining cabinetry.

“I hate to admit it, but I think it would be easier to simply take out the screws.”

Robbie lifted the toolbox and set it down near James’s knees. James found a screwdriver bit, fitted it into his drill, and went to work. When the second screw came out, the cabinet tilted to the side with an alarming creak.

“Grab it!” Robbie warned. “You don’t want it to come down on its own and bring down more of the wall.”

Robbie climbed up and held the cupboard in place while James took care of the remaining screws. Together they heaved it away from the wall and let it tip off the edge of the worktop. When it fell to the floor with a crash, James gave Robbie a wicked, playful grin—it was like he had a whole slew of expressions Robbie had never seen before, most of them smiles.

James slid down the worktop and started work on the next cabinet.

“You’re happier without the job,” Robbie said.

He tried to say it conversationally, but James paused, knowing immediately that it wasn’t a casual remark.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, not looking up. “But it’s not that simple.”

Robbie moved closer so that he could hold the next cupboard while James worked.

“It isn’t as though the moment I knew I was done, a weight lifted and everything was rosy,” James said as he got the drill lined up. “All my life, something would happen and I would just leap to the next thing. Leaving seminary. Even becoming a policeman—I think it only occurred to me because I didn’t want to work for MI5, and it seemed like the next best thing. Always reacting. Now, for the first time, I’ve made conscious decisions about how I want my life to be.”

Robbie hadn’t picked this moment on purpose, but maybe it was a good thing that they were in the middle of the project. James was talking more openly than he ever had, and it was probably because their hands were busy.

“Yes, I am happier, but it’s not just the job. I’ve found a job that suits me well enough, but . . . Do you know Maslow? The hierarchy of needs?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Maslow’s theory explains what motivates people and what fulfills them. A person can’t realize his full potential if his biological and psychological needs are not met. First we need to take care of our most basic, physical needs: food, shelter, and clothing. Then we need to feel safe. After that . . .” James finished the last screw, and another cabinet tumbled to the floor. “We need to feel loved. That we belong, so that we can discover how to fulfill our potential. Only then do we become self-actualized. It’s a pyramid, each level higher and more focused than the one below it.” He slid on his knees down the worktop and opened the next set of doors. “I always thought if I could get everything else in order that somehow the bit about love and belonging would work itself out, but that didn’t seem to be happening.”

“You know I don’t go in for all of that psychological mumbo-jumbo. But I suppose there is a kind of logic to it.” Really, the idea seemed like common sense to Robbie—that it was thought to be some kind of brilliant discovery seemed a little silly. “Is that what this is then? With the house? You’re starting from scratch?”

James had been busy with the drill, but he paused and turned his head to give Robbie a wry smile. “Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to approach things quite so literally.”

Another cabinet came off the wall and joined the others on the floor.

“I think Maslow would have agreed with you, sir—when you told me I need a partner,” James said quietly. His eyes darted to Robbie’s face and away again. “I’m not sure it’s much different for you.”

That was surprising. Robbie had been sure that James had been about to admit that he’d been seeing Paul, that he’d finally worked up the nerve to disclose one small, simple detail of his personal life. He hadn’t expected James to start psychoanalyzing _him_. It wasn’t the kind of thing Robbie liked to spend a lot of time thinking about, though James was probably right.

His own heirarchy pyramid used to be good and solid, but after Val’s death, it had started to erode: Val gone. The kids going their own directions—because they were growing up, of course, but also from grief. And Robbie was no better, running away to the islands. It had taken a while, but losing Val had taken away the stable middle layer until the entire structure was in danger of toppling. Maybe that was why Robbie had decided to come home, to connect with Lyn again.

Then there was Hathaway—James—who’d filled up some of that eroded space too. Somewhere between squash games and pints and even on the job, when Robbie hadn’t been paying attention. And now James had made room for Robbie in his new life, down to a hook in the entry for his coat. It made Robbie feel a flood of affection for the lad. He looked over and found James watching him.

Robbie gave him a nudge with his shouder. “Enough talk. Or we’ll be at this all night.”

James only nodded, his face serious. His brain never turned off, did it? Always thinking too much.

In a surprisingly short time, all of the upper cabinets from one side of the room were in a jumble on the floor. The row on the other side was more problematic, because that was where the water damage was. The wood was swollen and warped in places. Some of the screws had rusted, and the heads crumbled away when they tried to use the drill. James took up the sledgehammer again and made short work of the stubborn ones.

“What’s next, boss?” Robbie asked when the last cupboard fell.

James flashed a grin in his direction. “The lower cabinets, I suppose. Then the floor. That’s going to be quite a job. I tried to get some of it up last night, and the floorboards underneath are in such bad shape that they start peeling up with the lino. I think I’ll have to replace a lot of them.”

“Is there a cellar under here? I don’t fancy falling through.”

“No, no cellar. You’d only fall through to your knees. But still, a situation best avoided.”

They examined the floor. Scraping at it with a shovel worked well for large areas, but there were some difficult bits that wouldn’t budge. Robbie pried at one of the spots with a screwdriver, but still had no luck until James suggested using it like a chisel. He handed Robbie a hammer, and it worked—chips of half-rotted wood and yellowing lino gradually gave way. Robbie got a rhythm going, making decent progress for such a tedious task, and James started on the screws of the lower cupboards.

James had his head and shoulders stuck into one of the cabinets when there was a knock at the door, so Robbie went to answer. Outside was a pretty brunette holding a thick stack of papers.

“Oh, hello! You must be Robbie Lewis!”

“I am.” Robbie stepped away from the door to let her enter.

“I’m Emma Williams. I live just down the street. It’s so lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He led her into the kitchen. “Watch your step. It’s a regular minefield in here.”

James had pulled himself out of the cupboard by then. “Hello, Emma.”

“This looks wonderful, James! You’ve gotten so much done.” She lifted her bundle with a smile. “I’ve brought the manuscript.”

James rose, leaving his tools on the floor to take the papers from her. “Why not just e-mail it?”

She looked blank for several long moments, then laughed. “It honestly never occurred to me! But I don’t want you to have to print it out.”

“I wouldn’t. I can track any changes and insert notes on the file—it’s all very straightforward. I can show you.”

“If you say so. I’m sorry—I’m a complete Luddite.”

“Would you rather me just make notes on paper?” James said. He shot Robbie a sidelong glance. “I’m well used to working with a Luddite, so it’s not a problem.”

“Cheeky,” Robbie said.

Emma laughed. She stepped forward and rested one hand on James’s arm. It seemed like an intimate gesture—they were more than just casual acquaintances. Robbie had been trying to resign himself to the idea of James with lofty toff Paul, but maybe this Emma was the one? Robbie wasn’t cut out for romantic guesswork. She might be good for James at that. Even if she was an academic type, she seemed lively and cheerful. She might draw James out. “If you really wouldn’t mind working on paper, I admit it _would_ help,” she said. “I can’t edit anything on the computer. I can’t get past thinking of it as a glorified typewriter. I write everything longhand and then type it up later.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

“Oh! Are you still coming for Harry’s retirement party tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course,” James answered. He had untied the twine from around the papers and was leafing through. “Seven o’clock?”

“Yes, wonderful.” Emma looked at Robbie. “My husband’s retiring. We’re having a drinks thing—very casual. We’d love it if you’d come too.”

“That’s kind of you, but I don’t want to intrude.” She was married then. Probably happily—it seemed to Robbie that when a person spoke for someone else and said “we,” it meant they were a contented pair. So no match there for James.

“Oh, please say you’ll come. James talks about you so often we feel like we already know you.”

James finally raised his eyes from the papers. He spoke to Emma but looked at Robbie. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there.”

Robbie gave a little shake of his head, but James only raised his eyebrows in response.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” Emma said, settling the strap of her pocketbook onto her shoulder. “It really was a pleasure meeting you, Robbie. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Once she’d gone, James returned his attention to the manuscript.

Robbie came to read over his shoulder. “Another book, eh?”

“Yeah, it seems word has gotten around. The literati are coming out of the woodwork. And Harry has a friend with a few journal articles he’d like me to take a look at. It’s biochemistry. I’m not sure how much I can help with something like that, but I’ll take a crack at it. English is his second language, so perhaps I can do some good. But I feel lucky to be finding so much work—couldn’t do all this reno with just the assistantship.”

Robbie settled himself on the floor again to get back to work. James took the papers into the other room, then before he crawled back into his cabinet he said, “You will come tomorrow, won’t you?”

“All those Oxford types? I think I’ll pass.”

James frowned.

“Thanks just the same,” Robbie added.

“They’re not Oxford types, not Emma and Harry.”

Robbie didn’t answer.

“They’re really lovely people. Please come.”

“Maybe,” Robbie finally answered. James still looked dissatisfied, so he most likely knew that Robbie was hedging, but he let the subject drop. “And this Harry is retiring early?”

“No, I’m sure Harry’s well into his sixties.”

Robbie stopped and stared. “She can be more than thirty!”

“I’m sure you’re right.” James turned to look at him, a hint of a smile on his face. “Harry was her tutor while she was an undergraduate, and they grew closer once she started her graduate studies. I’m certain there were no improprieties when she was his student, sir. I’ve met the man. Harry would no more abuse his superior position than you would. I have no idea—”

He broke off, and Robbie watched, puzzled, as his face went white, and then red. Then his lips clamped into a thin line, and he turned away, hoisting the water-swollen cupboard at his feet and carrying it to the door in a rush. Robbie watched as James heaved his burden into the huge bin in the alley. He stood there for a moment before pulling a cigarette packet out of his pocket. He fumbled a bit with the lighter, then his shoulders sagged as he inhaled.

What had spooked the lad? They had been talking about James’s neighbors, hardly an awkward subject, and James had seemed amused at Robbie’s shock at their age difference. Then he’d compared Harry to Robbie himself, and of course Robbie would never impose himself on someone from a position of authority. Besides, the only person answering to him lately had been—

No, he couldn’t mean that. Could he? All that stuff about love and belonging, and them both needing someone? Suddenly it seemed obvious to Robbie: James’s phone calls, and the squash games, any excuse to see Robbie. He knew that James was fond of him, but he wasn’t quite able to make the leap to accepting that James might be attracted to him, sexually. Just thinking the word made Robbie’s face feel warm, even with James not there to see him. It couldn’t be like _that_ , could it? Why on earth would he set his sights on Robbie? A man old enough to be his father? No, Robbie must have it wrong.

Outside, James lifted one foot so that he could stub out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. When he came back in, he was all business, requesting that Robbie continue with the flooring while he himself lifted cabinet after cabinet until they were all out in the bin. Robbie offered to help, but he refused, using the excuse of Robbie’s back problems.

Robbie’s gaze kept wandering to James. As he moved around the room, he stepped over the debris covering the floor with the long-legged grace of a crane. Robbie realized that it wasn’t the first time he’d watched James just like this: appraising, appreciative. He’d never thought of himself as lacking self-awareness, but how could he not have noticed what was going on in his own head? Lingering on thoughts of James, flush-cheeked and drowsy in that enormous bathtub. How could Robbie have been so blind to it all? Even the way they sat together, with Robbie claiming the middle of the sofa so that James had to squeeze in next to him. Blind, deaf, and completely bloody stupid. 

He forced his eyes away from James and looked at the tools in his hands. He was here to help with a job, and focusing on that should keep him from troublesome thoughts. It was a good theory, at any rate. His hands carried on with the work, but his mind wouldn’t stop. He found himself imagining what it would be like—kissing James, holding him. He tried to work himself up into a good froth, a real homosexual panic, but he couldn’t quite manage it. He felt too comfortable with James for the idea of being close to him to be disturbing.

Still, Robbie found it hard to believe that he might be gay. After two kids and twenty years of marriage? Or maybe bisexual would be the proper term. But what did it matter? James got skittish around labels too, and Robbie didn’t want “men.” Only James mattered, and right now all Robbie knew was that he couldn’t stand it that James wouldn’t look at him.

They worked until James got every last one of the cabinets off the wall and into the bin outside. Robbie wasn’t able to finish the floor, but James was seemed satisfied with their progress—as pleased as he could be when still wearing such a grim expression.

James had put the tools away in the toolbox, and Robbie didn’t bother to get up. He sat with his back against the wall and waited for James to bring him a beer. He took a few sips, and James plopped down next to him.

“Thank you for your help,” James said, still avoiding Robbie’s gaze. He took a long drink from his beer, his throat working as he swallowed.

Robbie didn’t answer. He noticed that there was a fine layer of dust and plaster settled over James’s hair and slowly, observing the results carefully, like a scientist conducting an experiment, reached out to brush it off with his fingers. James turned his face away, squinting to keep the dust out of his eyes. But then he looked back at Robbie, finally meeting his eye. It set off butterflies in Robbie’s stomach.

Robbie pushed aside all of the questions that clamored for attention. He figured that there was no going back—now that he knew, James was already embarrassed and ill at ease, not able to speak to him normally. Things would never be the same between them anyway, so why not give it a go?

Robbie considered saying exactly that, but when he cleared his throat, James flinched. He sat staring at his hands, tearing at the label on his bottle. When Robbie said his name, he looked up. He was worrying at the inside of his lip with his teeth, and he was white as a sheet, but he didn’t look away this time. Robbie felt oddly proud of him: he was brave when it counted. Robbie’s heart was pounding. He stared at James, silently urging him on. 

James set his bottle aside and leaned forward. He placed one hand on Robbie’s shoulder, then frowned, as if he’d expected Robbie to push him away and became more terrified when he didn’t. James pressed closer, Robbie closed his eyes and tilted up his chin, and James kissed him firmly on the mouth. It wasn’t one of Robbie’s better kisses. James improved the angle by tilting his head, but it still seemed like things weren’t fitting together the way they ought. And when James pulled away, he didn’t look as happy as Robbie was expecting. His eyebrows still showed his worry.

“You’re far too kind to tease me,” he said.

Robbie could hardly hear him. “I would never—”

James cut him off with another kiss, grabbing him with both hands. And _then_ it was good—James’s fingers clutching at the back of his head, his tongue darting out for a bold swipe across Robbie’s lower lip. He slid his hand up James’s side, feeling his ribs under worn cotton and lean muscle. James shifted nearer, his kisses running together now so it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next one began.

Robbie made a noise of protest when James pulled away, but he only moved to get closer—up on his knees and swinging one leg over so that he was straddling Robbie’s lap. He put his hands on either side of Robbie’s head on the wall. His head and shoulders loomed over Robbie, and his arse rested lightly on Robbie’s legs, just above his knees. He nudged at Robbie’s head, pushing it to one side to suck at the thin skin below his jaw. It put paid to any fears Robbie had about how he might respond. He felt surrounded, overpowered—it was brilliant. He rested his hands on James’s hips and was rewarded with a nip at his earlobe.

“I never imagined,” Robbie said when he could get enough breath to force out the words. “. . . you’d be so . . . enthusiastic.”

It was the wrong thing to say. It made James go shy and self-conscious. His head snapped up.

“No, I like it,” Robbie insisted. He grabbed a handful of James’s T-shirt and tried to maneuver him back down.

“I didn’t—” James whispered. “I don’t mean to be too—”

“Shhh, you’re perfect.” Robbie craned his neck up for a kiss. James kissed him back, but his body was pulling away instead of pushing close.

“James.” Robbie grabbed one of James’s hands and pressed it to the front of his jeans where his cock was pressing uncomfortably against his zip. “I more than like it.”

James let out a groan that made Robbie’s cock jerk against his palm. Before Robbie knew what had happened, James was plastered against him, one long arm around his neck, the other wrapped around his waist, pulling him bodily forward until they were smashed together, chest to chest, belly to belly.

James plunged his tongue into Robbie’s mouth and shifted his hips. Even through two layers of denim, the feeling of James’s cock pressed against his was almost painfully good. Robbie shoved his hands up under James’s shirt. Warm, smooth skin under his hands. James’s mouth slid over Robbie’s jaw and returned to his neck while he ground his hips against Robbie’s.

“You’re good at this,” Robbie panted. 

James let out a huff of laughter, his face still pressed into the crook of Robbie’s neck.

“I thought you’d be shy, or clumsy, but you sure as hell know what you’re doing.”

James’s arms tightened around Robbie, and he said, “Will you come upstairs?”

“I’m all over dust.”

“I don’t care,” James growled. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve—” He cut himself off by kissing Robbie again, hard.

Before Robbie could argue, James was unwinding himself from Robbie’s body. He tugged Robbie to his feet, then took the stairs two at a time. By the time Robbie reached the bedroom door, James had closed the curtains and was pulling his shirt over his head. His hair was mussed, and he looked a little lost: uncertain but hungry. Robbie kissed his lips, then his collarbone. He tried to slide his hands around James’s waist, but James tugged at the hem of Robbie’s shirt until Robbie stepped back to let him pull it off. 

James bent to press his cheek against Robbie’s bare chest, then turned his head to lick at his nipple. It made Robbie jump in surprise, but James’s arm came around his waist and pulled him close. Warm, naked skin, pressed against Robbie’s bare chest and under his hands. James’s tongue teasing at his lips. Robbie couldn’t remember ever feeling so turned on, but he pulled away for a moment, just to see James’s face. He was staring intently at Robbie’s mouth, clearly ready for another kiss, but when he noticed that Robbie was pausing, he stopped and gave him a beautiful smile. With it, the last of Robbie’s reservations disappeared—James was happy. Robbie pulled him close and kissed him soundly.

James tore at Robbie’s belt buckle and zip, pushed him down onto the bed, and pulled gently at the elastic waistband of his boxers. When Robbie didn’t object, James slid one hand inside to pull out Robbie’s cock. His fingers felt hot. He bent his head. At the first tentative touch of James’s lips, Robbie gasped. James looked up, his eyes dark. Then his mouth returned to Robbie’s cock, and there was nothing tentative about it.

He took Robbie’s cock almost into his throat. His tongue pulled at the underside as if it wanted to coax him deeper still. God, it was good—hot, silky, wet—and in seconds Robbie was right on the edge. He summoned every ounce of willpower he had and placed a gentle hand on James’s head. James opened his eyes and looked up at Robbie, but he didn’t stop what he was doing.

“Better slow things down,” Robbie said, tugging on James’s arm.

He pulled James up onto the bed and kissed away the uncertain expression that crept across his face. “I don’t want to finish too soon.” He breathed the words into James’s ear, and James shivered against him.

Robbie pushed James down onto his back and reached for the button of his jeans. James was breathing quickly, and his hand hovered in the air like he didn’t know quite what to do with himself. But once Robbie got his hand inside James’s clothes and wrapped his hand around his cock, James’s face went all slack and dreamy, and he pushed up into Robbie’s grasp.

The zip was scraping against Robbie’s hand every time he tried to move, so Robbie pushed at the fabric. James rolled away and shucked his jeans off in one swift movement. Robbie thought his heart would stop. Miles and miles of perfect, pale skin. But James didn’t give him much time to look—he strained up to find Robbie’s mouth again. Robbie ran his hand down over James’s flat stomach, glided over one hip, then finally back to his cock. He tried to keep it slow, but James starting making lovely desperate noises. His teeth closed onto Robbie’s bottom lip for a split second, then he opened his mouth in a gasp.

“Please.”

Robbie lifted his head. “James?”

“Please, sir—” James pulled Robbie back down for a wet kiss. “Robbie.” He reached out then, shoving Robbie’s jeans down around his thighs and pulling him over until he was lying on top.

Warm, James was so warm down the length of Robbie’s body, and his cock felt burning hot against Robbie’s leg. His hands grabbed Robbie’s hips, pushing him where he wanted him, until their cocks were sliding together.

Warm skin everywhere, James’s leg hooked behind his knee, James’s lips against his ear, his hands grabbing Robbie’s arse and pull him impossibly closer. Robbie pushed up to thrust harder against James’s hips. Then James cried out, and his whole frame tensed. Robbie could feel the hot flood against his skin. He could hardly move—James had a tight grip on his hips now—but he shifted, sliding against James’s slick belly once, then again, and he was coming too, his cock jerking, his arms shaking.

He collapsed, falling half on James. James turned to press his lips to Robbie’s. It wasn’t a kiss exactly—they weren’t coordinated enough for that yet, but Robbie could feel James’s panting breaths puffing over his lips.

“Am I crushing you?” Robbie said, then felt silly for asking about something so mundane.

“No,” James murmured, wrapping his arms around Robbie. “It’s lovely. Don’t move a muscle.”

_This should feel strange_ , Robbie thought, but it wasn’t somehow, and Robbie was sleepy. It seemed the easiest thing to just close his eyes and settle himself against James’s warmth.

The trill of Robbie’s mobile startled them both from their stupors. James’s eyes snapped open, and his brow furrowed. They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing: Robbie was being summoned for a case.

Robbie patted his pockets, but the phone wasn’t there. He groped the sheets but had no luck. He couldn’t move with his jeans around his thighs, so he kicked them off. By that point, James was sitting up as well. They both fumbled through the bedclothes, but James found it. As he handed it to Robbie, his face was blank. Clearly he didn’t want Robbie to leave, and of course Robbie didn’t want to go. For James’s sake—didn’t want to leave James imagining what Robbie would find when he arrived at the scene. And for his own sake too. Robbie finally pulled the phone free and read the number on the screen.

“Lyn,” he said, and James nodded.

It was at that moment that Robbie realized he was going to retire. He didn’t need the excuse of the job anymore. He would retire but stay in Oxford. Because it was his home, and for James, and because he bloody well wanted to. Robbie smiled and said, “I’ll call back later.”

Robbie realized that James was staring. And both of them sitting there without a stitch on. He crawled back up the bed, pulled the duvet around them, and felt James’s fingers wrap around his arm. Robbie set his phone on the bedside table and flopped down flat, surprised to find that it was a good bed, maybe even more comfortable than his own.

“Is this a new bed?”

“Mmm.”

Robbie poked his elbow into it.

“Is this an orthopaedic mattress?”

There was a pause before James answered with another noncommittal hum.

Robbie nudged James. He blushed slightly, though his eyes didn’t open.

“All the work on the house has been very hard on my back, sir.”

Robbie turned and wrapped an arm around James’s ribcage, giving him a shake, and James laughed out loud—another unfamiliar thing, but glorious to hear. He opened his eyes and kissed Robbie then. “There are times in life when a little optimism is called for. Don’t you think so?”

THE END


End file.
